Once Upon a Time
by Aietradaea
Summary: Collection of short ficlets, oneshots, bits and pieces. Prompts, requests, AUs, missing scenes and Bloopers; some humourous, some angsty; and hopefully a variety of characters, genres and eras. Character tags and genre updated to match newest chapter.
1. 24 Hour Party People

**Disclaimer:** Nope, won't be owning Doctor Who for a little while yet...(ooh, that was an optimistic way of putting it!)

Well well well... It's been two years to the day since I saw "End of Time", and therefore two years to the day since I started writing Doctor Who fanfiction, since I had the first two chapters of "Time and Time Again" and the whole plot outline done by later that night. Thought I ought to mark the occasion...so, I'm starting _this_! This fic is where I'm going to put all the little bits and pieces I write that don't really fit anywhere else. Prompts, requests, AUs, missing scenes, weird little spontaneous ideas; most will probably be humourous, some might be angsty, probably be a few Bloopers'verse things in there somewhere...we'll see what happens, eh? There'll hopefully be a variety of characters (although knowing me, probably not!).

And here's the starters - a little taste of what might be to come! Came from a conversation with Brownbug about how very multi-talented and awesome John Simm is - and yes, I have recycled a chunk of my "End of Time" fanfiction "Keeping Time".

Rating, genre and character tags updated to match newest chapter.  
>This chapter: <strong>K+<strong>; **Humour**; **Simm-****Master**

* * *

><p>The two humans were sat with their backs to the Master in a pair of grey armchairs that spilled their stuffing through numerous tears in their worn fabric. Sheltered from the bitter December wind by a rusting scaffold, they attempted to warm themselves over a smoky flame in a dented oil drum.<p>

The Master's muscles tensed, suddenly brimming with energy – he leaped into the air, impossibly high, before alighting on a stack of tyres behind the men. They turned in surprise; the Master hardly noticed. Realizing he still held the last remaining wrapped burger from the kiosk, he ripped into the paper and began frantically tearing bites out of it.

"Somebody's lively on his feet," one of the men commented. The Master barely heard, with the smell of the burger filling his nostrils, the taste of it in his mouth, the feel of the energy the food was giving him, even if it was quickly overwhelmed by the ferocious hunger.

"Starving," he mumbled through a mouthful. The two humans stared as he devoured the entire burger as though he hadn't eaten for a week.

"Now ye see, that's what ye don't wanna do," the older man said to the younger, Ginger, gesturing to the Master, who was by now licking the sauce off the paper, "eat it all at once. Tempting, I know. But if ye make it last, it can last all day."

It was all gone, the last of that delicious, life-giving food – but he was still _so_ insatiably hungry. He needed more…anything…

"…more…cheese and chips, and meat, and gravy, and cream and beer…" he began muttering, eyes darting to the two men, who had fallen silent, eyeing him warily. "…and pork and beef and fat…great big chunks of hot, wet, red…" He trailed off, eyes still fixed on the two humans. That meat in the burger had tasted so good…so sustaining, so full of energy. Yes, that was what he needed…

"Good fer you, mate," the older man, Tommo, said, tearing his eyes away and nudging Ginger. "Maybe we'd better be going." Ginger glanced at the older man, and then seemed to do a double-take back to the Master, squinting thoughtfully.

"Y-you look like that bloke," he observed, and the Master met his gaze.

_Oh, here it comes…_ Mentally he rolled his eyes, a smile spreading across his face as he licked the last of the sauce off his fingers. When it came to going incognito, maybe becoming Prime Minister hadn't been his most subtle step, let alone getting his face – as well as this regeneration had worked out – on international television.

"Hey…" Now Tommo was taking a second look at the Master's face, recognition slowly dawning in his eyes. "Hey, yeah – so 'e does…" They were so _slow_ – the Master could have laughed aloud as Tommo turned to Ginger. "You remember, eh – how did it go again?"

"Yeah – what was it? 'Do do, do do do, dodododo do do'…" he began singing.

"What?" The Master stopped short, blinking at the men. Tommo began humming along, nodding in time.

"Hmm hm-hm mm-mm…what were the words? 'Hooow does it feel, to tre-'"

"No no no," the Master interrupted hastily, raising a finger and gesturing to his face. "Prime Minister. Harold Saxon. Ring any bells?" It was too late; grinning broadly, both men were singing along now.

"C'mon, give us a few lines! 'Thought I told you to meet me, when I walked down to the beach'…"

With a growl, the Master crumpled the paper in one hand, flung it to the ground and jumped to his feet.

"It was the eighties!" he exploded, stomping off towards the gravel heaps, the tuneless singing of the men pursuing him across the wasteland.


	2. Unborn

**Disclaimer:** *sighhh* No Who...but can I adopt the Valeyard? Pweeease? 0_0'

Shortest ever fanfic - woo! I'm having a clear-out of the bits-and-pieces on my hard drive, and this 'ere is a "Time's Champion" drabble. And before anyone pulls me up on writing something in script format - that's because it _is_ a "Time's Champion" drabble. Every so often in that novel, there's a little interlude of events beyond the reach of mortal eyes; this is my attempt at the format used.

Rating, genre and character tags updated to match newest chapter.  
>This chapter: <strong>K+<strong>; **Supernatural**; **Valeyard**

* * *

><p><em>Contact.<em>

_Pain: He is screaming.  
>Life: You had a hand in his creation. We all of us played our part in this unnatural birth.<br>Death: Birth? This was no birth. He can never taste what you have to offer, my sister.  
>Fate: But he has his own path to walk, nonetheless.<br>Hope: You mean he could still have a chance to attain what he will be promised?  
>Disciple: I...am...<br>Time: At last, Doctor. I was beginning to fear you had lost yourself._

_Break contact._


	3. Spiceworld

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, I don't own Doctor Who. Fortunately (for everyone, I think!), I don't own the Spice Girls.

Another of the bits-and-pieces I've done over time that're just now crawling out of the woodwork. This one was for a prompt/request for a Spice Girls-themed Doctor/Master fic on LJ. Not sure it's really Doctor/Master, as such...but here ya go, have another biopic-fusion oneshot! The Nine being vaguely referred to is the "REG Doctor" from "Scream of the Shalka", because of Reasons, and if you know the reference, you are a true child of the '90s!

Rating, genre and character tags updated to match newest chapter.  
>This chapter: <strong>K+<strong>; **Humour**;** Simm-Master, Ten  
><strong>

* * *

><p>For the first week of the reign of terror, the Master's taste in music had been the last things on the minds of the <em>Valiant<em>crew and prisoners.

By the second week, it was wearing the nerves thin of even the most stoic of the black-clad guards.

There came a particularly warm day in the third week, when the sun shone and the airship passed across the glittering azure expanse of the Pacific Ocean where the devastation that had been wrought was out of sight, when they dared to hope that perhaps they would get used to it.

But then the Tuesday of the fourth week dawned, and they cursed the cruelty of Fate which had decreed the funeral dirge of their world.

"_Stop right now, thank you very much - I need somebody with a human to-ou-uch_," the Master sang as he twirled Lucy across the flight deck, catching the Doctor's eye on the last words and allowing his hands to slide a little further down the half-bare back of his wife. From his position in a wheelchair beside a large porthole, the ancient Time Lord remained stony-faced, his dark eyes never leaving the Master's.

"_Hey you, always on the run_," the Master continued undeterred, pointing to the Doctor with both hands. "_Gotta slow it down, baby, gotta have some fu-un_..." Releasing Lucy - just discarding her to one side like a child bored with a doll - he bounded down the steps and sashayed across the hall to the Doctor, where he threw an arm around the Doctor's hunched, aching shoulders.

"_And we know that you could go and find some other - take or leave it 'cause we've always got each other_..." Caught up in the infectious pop song, eyes sparkling, grinning from ear to ear as he sang along, he hardly noticed the Doctor open his mouth and draw a rattling breath. "_You know who you are, and yes, you're gonna break down - you've crossed the line, so you're gonna have to-_"

"That was our only one that didn't get number one."

The Master stopped short, and rolled his head around slowly to face the Doctor.

"What?"

"Pity, really - Vicky always did like that-" The Doctor's hoarse voice broke off into a dry, wheezing cough; the Master, a look of stunned bewilderment dawning on his face, absent-mindedly patted his back.

"No no no - you said _our_." Before the Doctor had a chance to reply, something else occurred to him, and he added, "Wait - _Vicky_? You know-"

"_Knew_," the Doctor corrected, his expression once again sinking into graven martyrdom. There was a long pause while the Master digested this information and the song trailed out, and then the Doctor gave a feeble half-shrug. "Well, Clifford got stung by a Vespiform. Someone had to do it."

As far as preserving history went, it hadn't been one of the Doctor's favourite adventures - his ninth incarnation had always fancied himself more...cultured...in his music tastes, and the pop revolution of the last years of the 20th century hadn't quite fit the image he wanted to present. (At least, he _thought_ it was his ninth - an encounter with the Could-Have-Been King towards the end of the Time War had left its mark, and he couldn't be quite sure of these things sometimes.) Still, that was why he had been sent there, and he had endured it with a long-suffering air that would have greatly amused the Master, had he been there. (_Had_he been there?) Even he couldn't deny that they had virtually single-handedly changed the face of Earth's mainstream music scene, sparking off a chain of fixed points along the causal nexus that would stretch well into the year five billion, when the frequencies of a later record on a jukebox would interfere with the auditory sensors of a spider droid to just the degree where it would miss a humanoid tree by the name of Jabe by seconds.

Now, the Doctor thought wistfully that he would be especially glad when the Celebrity Purge of the first week was undone. He still missed those girls sometimes.


	4. Baby Baby Baby

**Disclaimer:** Yup, it's been a while, but I'm still no closer to owning Doctor Who. Sad panda Aietra.

Bits and pieces again! This is an old one I did for a prompt on best-enemies on LJ:

_Ainley calls the Doctor (any one, but now I've written this, it sounds very Six) 'baby' without realizing he did, preferably during tense dialogue in a dangerous situation. The Doctor is completely distracted from said situation, because 'baby' is ridiculous and Will Not Be Tolerated._

AU tiems and silliness ensued - "Trial of a Time Lord" was my victim this time ("End of Time" is looking relieved!).

Rating, genre and character tags updated to match newest chapter.  
>This chapter: <strong>K+<strong>; **Humour/Parody**;** Six, Ainley-Master  
><strong>

* * *

><p>"Ten million years of absolute power - that's what it takes to be <em>really<em>corrupt!"

The distinguished Time Lords in the jury were beginning to fidget, exchanging glances among themselves as the Doctor raged. High above their heads on the Matrix screen, the Master watched in bemusement as Mel's futile attempts to calm him down went unheard.

"Doctor, these unseemly outbursts-" the Inquisitor began, but the Doctor interrupted, his voice rising even further with livid anger.

"Unseemly outbursts?" he exploded. "If I hadn't visited Ravalox, as I then thought of it, the High Council would have kept this outrage carefully buried as, presumably, they have for several centuries!"

"I must agree." Casually ignoring the withering glare he was receiving from the Valeyard across the courtroom, the Master felt it was about time he reminded them of his presence, and was immensely gratified as the heads of everyone present turned to face him again. He could barely contain his glee at the chaos he had stirred up. "You have an endearing habit of blundering into these things, baby - and the High Council took full advantage of your blunder."

"Explain that," the Inquisitor snapped.

"They made a deal with the Valeyard," the Master replied, meeting the steely eyes of the now-uneasy prosecutor at last, "or, as I've always known him...the Doctor...to adjust the evidence. In return for which, he was promised the remainder of the Doctor's regenerations."

"This is-" The Valeyard had barely risen from his seat when the Doctor cut him off, incredulity written across his face.

"_Just a minute_!" The Doctor looked as though he could barely believe his ears. "Did you call me..._baby_?"

"What?" Blinking in surprise, the Master had to do a double-take. "Doctor, you have missed my point entirely."

"Well, of all the absurd terms of affection you have produced in the centuries of our relationship, this takes the cake!" the Doctor snorted. "'Baby' indeed. Ridiculous."

"Utterly preposterous," the Valeyard put in.

"Outrageous."

"Entirely inappropriate."

Whispers could now be heard from the jury; several of the ancient Time Lords were twitching at the corners of their mouths. The Doctor could feel his face reddening, and he was mildly puzzled to see a faint pink tinge creeping across the Valeyard's pale cheeks.

"Doctor, you blustering fool - did you not-" the Master tried again.

"Oh, I don't _think_so!" the Doctor exclaimed. "Petty insults now?"

"I think we've heard quite enough," said the Valeyard coolly.

"Ah, the Caryard has some sense in him!" The Doctor waved a hand in a mock-dismissive gesture towards the Matrix screen. "Switch him off."

"Certainly."

"No - Doctor, I have information!" the Master protested in vain as the Valeyard turned to his panel of controls for the Matrix. "He is an amalga-" With a dull "pop", the kaleidoscope of colours and the Master's face vanished, and the courtroom fell silent. The Inquisitor was the first to break the awkward pause.

"Doctor, kindly refrain from allowing your personal life to impinge on the affairs of this court."

"I..." Flustered, the Doctor trailed off, straightening his coat lapels and adamantly avoiding her gaze.

"Now," the Inquisitor continued. "Since we obviously cannot accept the testimony of Sabalom Glitz or Miss Bush as unbiased witnesses, do you have any further evidence to present in your defence...?"


	5. Birds of a Feather

**Disclaimer:** Do I...er...do I even want to claim to owning this story...? ^^; Standard Bloopersverse disclaimer - these are the **fictional characters** creating the work of fanfiction **not the actors**. Also, references to another Bloopersverse canon spin-off that I don't own, and a beer advert. Sorry about that!

And this...this is a parody of a parody - a Bloopersverse version of the previous chapter. Because you know those AU stories people write, where all the Harry Potter characters are wolves, or all the Doctor Who characters are ponies, or all the Jersey Shore characters are goldfish, or whatever? Yeah. I thought to myself "hey, I could do one of those!" And this happened.

Rating, genre and character tags updated to match newest chapter.  
>This chapter: <strong>K+<strong>; **Humour/Sci-fi**;** Six, Ainley-Master  
><strong>

* * *

><p>The Director would never have guessed from canon that the machenite-lined courtroom in which the Sixth Doctor had spent so much of his screen-time could get so stuffy. If the fanfiction he was working on had been any longer, he might have lodged a complaint with the Celestial Intervention Agency about the lack of air-conditioning on their space station. As it was, though, he had less than a page to get through, and the paperwork and bureaucracy involved in dealing with the CIA was always more trouble than it was worth.<p>

The characters weren't complaining. The distinguished Time Lords up in the jury, sweltering in their heavy robes and collars, were determined to sit it out and do their duty upholding Gallifreyan law; the Inquisitor most likely would have point-blank refused to allow him to cut the scene one more time; and as far as the two Doctors glaring daggers at each other across the room were concerned, they were simply following canon. There was only one character who knew the single word that had been changed to send the whole situation spiralling down the alternate track that had been planned for this fanfiction, and he was currently smirking down at them from the Matrix screen, far away in the comfort of his own TARDIS. The Director could just tell from the little smile on the Master's smug, bearded face that he probably had a glass of chilled white wine sitting on his console, just out of sight, reruns of "In the Night Garden" playing on his TARDIS scanner.

"Doctor, these unseemly outbursts-" the Inquisitor was saying, and the Director turned back to the manuscript. He was more or less on his own for this one, standing behind the camera crew with just a set supervisor and a technician monitoring the Matrix screen transmission. The manuscript had been sent to him anonymously – a single page, but with the promise of at least one link-back and possible cross posting…enough hits to make a day's job worthwhile, anyway, and hopefully enough to start paying for some rather expensive AU filters he had just invested in.

"Unseemly outbursts?" The furious Doctor needed no prompting, and reading along with the manuscript, the Director nodded to himself, satisfied. "If I hadn't visited Ravalox, as I then thought of it, the High Council would have _bwaaaaark-puk-puk-puk-puk-puKAK_!"

"Pardon?" Astonished, the Director raised his head. At first glance, the courtroom appeared to be empty – the Time Lords, Mel and Glitz…as far as he could see, the entire cast had simply vanished. And then he realized that perched on the rail of the defendant's dock was, in fact, a large, sleek and rather surprised-looking rooster; and that the cooing noise that was slowly building was coming from the dozen or so pigeons and a fantail dove milling about in the jury stands.

"CUT!" he bellowed, when he eventually found his voice. He rounded on the set supervisor, who was already looking as blank as he felt; undeterred, he demanded, "What are _they_ doing there?"

"I…I think they're your characters," the set supervisor answered slowly, staring about the room.

"_That_?" the Director spluttered, pointing an accusing finger towards the dock. "That is not the Sixth Doctor – that is a rooster. And a…a…" He had turned and pointed towards where the Valeyard had moments ago been glowering up at the Matrix screen, but a bird now perched on the back of the prosecutor's chair was unfamiliar to him; medium-sized and glossy black, with white strips on the wings, a ruff of spangled feathers about its neck almost in the shape of a collar, and two long, white feathers at its chin.

"It's a tui," the technician supplied.

"Yeah?" The Director barely heard, burying his head in his hands with a sigh. "Right. Well, it's not one of my characters. What's going on?"

"_Prrrrruk-puk-puk_!" Silence would have met his words, if it weren't for an indignant squawk from the rooster, who stood up straight and fixed him with a fierce, yellow eye, and the tui, which began to emit a rapid, rhythmic clicking sound. Behind the defendant's dock, a stocky, brown seagull took to the air and flew out the door, straight over the heads of two flustered partridges, followed moments later by a slender lorikeet which was shrieking piercingly.

Overhead, the Master appeared to have vanished entirely, leaving only swirling colours filling the Matrix screen. Quickly coming to a conclusion, the Director hurried over to the technician, who was sat behind a panel of controls.

"Check the Matrix," he ordered. "This is the Master's fault, I know it." The technician's set of Matrix controls had the authority to override any commands by either the Master or the Valeyard, but even after several minutes of flicking switches, swapping input plugs and tweaking dials, feathers were still rustling in the jury stand, and the tui had begun to make full use of its dual voicebox, accompanying its own bell-like notes with a rattling creak.

"Nope – sorry, Director," the technician said eventually. "There's nothing wrong with the Matrix."

"Are you sure?"

"I can't see how the Matrix _could_ do…this." The technician shook her head, bewildered. "I mean, illusions, yeah – but not _outside_ the virtual reality."

"Well, that's it then, isn't it?" the Director realized. "We're inside the Matrix already – this is all an illusion. We've been tricked into thinking we're outside filming a fanfiction."

"It…could be…" the technician replied uncertainly, throwing a nervous glance over her shoulder. "Do you remember going into the Matrix for anything before we started?"

"No – I…" Try as he might, the Director couldn't for the life of him recall setting foot inside the Matrix. He had given the Master his instructions, the Master had departed in his TARDIS with the Key of Rassilon, the screen had been switched on and connected by the technician, and… Horror descended across his face as something occurred to him. "_You're_ an illusion. You're _all_ illusions," he proclaimed, stepping back from the camera crew and set supervisor, who exchanged glances. "I'm trapped in the Matrix, aren't I? You're all just virtual constructs to create a scenario that I would believe!"

The noise was escalating in the courtroom, even over the Director's voice. Simultaneously whistling repetitively like a firework and honking intermittently, the tui was growing steadily louder, until it was cut off by a tremendous _cock-a-doodle-doo_ from the rooster. Startled, the flock of pigeons and the dove took off with a rustle of wings, wheeling around the high ceiling and fluttering frantically as they tried to land on the edges of the wall panels.

"I deny this reality!" the Director shouted desperately, diving for the door and covering his head with the manuscript. "I deny this reality!"

…

The Master had almost forgotten how much fun he had had watching the Doctor's trial all those centuries ago, eventually interrupting when it suited him, taking great pleasure in selecting his words and timing for maximum effect. Now, he felt he was only beginning to discover how much _more_ fun he could have been having.

Careful to remain out of sight of the Matrix screen, he set the glass of white wine in his hand back down on the console and folded both his hands in his bleached-white hair, leaning back in his chair and swinging his dusty, workboot-clad feet up onto the edge of the console.

"Ruffled a few more feathers this time," he chuckled to himself, watching the Director fleeing the courtroom and wincing as a pigeon narrowly avoided flying straight into the screen. Lazily, he reached out and swatted at a magpie that was pecking at the laser screwdriver on the console. With a forlorn croak, the black and silver bird fluttered back just out of reach, before advancing again to jab at the screwdriver. To the magpie's annoyance, the Master picked up the screwdriver and slipped it into the pocket of his black hoodie. Not only was it technology that was several lifetimes away for this point in his timeline, but the screwdriver was remotely controlling the stolen AU filter that sat on a table behind him.

The Master knew he would have to make himself scarce before a squad from FanFiction HQ turned up to investigate the disturbance, but he still had plenty of time before he would have to return to sitting around stranded on a primitive planet bickering with John Hart.

Plenty of time to enjoy the carnage he had created, he thought happily, raising the glass of wine to toast the magpie, which was sulking with one head under its wing.


	6. Destroyer of Worlds

**Disclaimer:** Oh, woe is me - I own no Doctor Who!

Experimental little piece written a looong time ago to test out an OC I was starting to work out - the Sentinel. Never managed to finish that OC's story, unfortunately, but I think this works as a standalone, so I might as well share it!

Rating, genre and character tags updated to match newest chapter.  
>This chapter: <strong>K+<strong>; **Sci-fi**;** Thirteen, OC  
><strong>

* * *

><p>For the second time in Gallifreyan history, the sanctity of the Eye of Harmony had been violated. What had come as even more of a shock to the members of the High Council was that it was the second time in living memory. Even the Sentinel, who was by no means as ancient as some of the other Time Lords in the Citadel – only in his eighth century and third regeneration – remembered clearly that first time.<p>

Gallifrey had already been in turmoil with the assassination of the outgoing President – and then the ground had begun to shake. Cracks had streaked through the walls like forked lightning, ceilings and doorways had caved in, the air had rung with screams and shouts of pure terror, there had been nowhere to run… And then, just as suddenly as it had started, the world fell still.

The Citadel had been so silent over those next few minutes that it was as though it were holding its breath. The Time Lords couldn't quite trust themselves that it was over at first – crawling out from under their desks, emerging from corners where they had cowered with their hands over their heads, they barely dared to speak, lest something should shatter and the floor give way beneath their feet.

Several of the casualties of that day had been known to the Sentinel, including an old friend from the Academy, Runcible. Murdered, he had been – by a renegade, an outlaw calling himself the Master. Apparently, had it not been for the intervention of a late Chancellor by the name of Goth, the incident could have ended in catastrophe for Gallifrey and a hundred other star systems. There were some discrepancies in the official story, but the Sentinel knew better than to question it. After all, it had satisfied the public, and life had eventually settled more or less back into its customary order and stability.

Striding beside a guard down the narrow corridor towards the cell where the criminal was being held, his eyes swept the pristine, white walls and angular, simplistic architecture that surrounded him. They had been fortunate this time, and the carnage and destruction that would have been caused had the Eye been successfully opened had been avoided. According to the brief report he had heard, the Chancellory Guard had managed to blast their way into the Panopticon and apprehend the criminal just as he was inserting the Great Key into its slot on the raised dais.

"Just broke down, he did." The guard's voice broke into the Sentinel's thoughts as they turned a sharp corner.

"Broke down?" the Sentinel echoed, puzzled. "How do you mean?"

"Well, just…" The guard shrugged. "Like he'd given up, you know. Just completely given up. Didn't struggle when my men marched him off to the cells – didn't even speak."

"How peculiar."

"That's one word for it." With a short laugh, the guard shook his head. "Psych evaluation wanted to have a look at him, but his DE says he was a Prydonian. That's why the Castellan sent me to fetch you – it's about the same age as yours. Thought you might know him."

The Master had been a Prydonian, the Sentinel remembered with a jolt. He and several other prominent Prydonians had tried in vain to keep that information suppressed, but somehow, it had still leaked. He never had found out whether the Master had been a Time Lord he knew at the Academy – but quite frankly, if he had ever associated with such a character, he had no wish to remember it. Could this be the Master again, still surviving after all this time, back for a second attempt at his thwarted plot?

"Right, here we are." Coming to a halt outside a sealed, white door, the guard reached up to straighten his helmet, adjusted his cape and checked the stasar at his belt with one hand, before sliding up the flap in the centre of the door and peering through the force-field shielded window. He frowned, but closed the flap and placed a hand on the security pad beside the door. There was a faint hum as the force-field powered down, the click of several locks and a hiss from the seal, and then the door slid open and the guard strode through, the Sentinel following close behind.

The room was a standard high-security cell for prisoners expected to be held for longer periods of time, furnished with a simple bed in one corner, a desk and chair in another, a screen in one wall for monitoring and remote communication when permitted, and a door in the far wall leading to a small bathroom.

Immediately, the Sentinel's eyes fell on the Time Lord sat behind the desk, facing the room with his back to the wall. Motionless and showing no sign that he had registered their entry, his face was hidden, both hands buried in dark hair, elbows resting on the desk.

The first thought that occurred to the Sentinel was that this Time Lord was _old_. Not just in regeneration – although it was clear that he was on his last, his psychic presence was so faint, like a faded painting – and not in years; he had to have been in his second millennium, but there were other Time Lords in the Citadel who were well past that. No – he was old in a way the Sentinel felt he could not possibly understand. This was a Time Lord who had seen so much and experienced more than most of the other Time Lords in the Citadel put together; he had done more than existed for his thirteen incarnations – he had _lived_, every last minute. And it had taken its toll – from the silent indifference to his situation, the way he bowed his head, the slump of his thin shoulders, the Sentinel could tell that the Time Lord was utterly spent, exhausted beyond measure, without strength or will to fight for one more step.

"The Lord Sentinel," the guard announced, stepping aside and standing to attention for the Sentinel to move forward. Taking a few steps closer, he remained a cautious distance from the desk, standing straight with his hands folded in the wide sleeves of his scarlet and orange robe. He couldn't help raising his eyebrows in disdain at the Time Lord's attire, which was uncouth and entirely alien to his eyes: a simple, black waistcoat, worn over a white shirt with loose, baggy sleeves buttoned tightly at the wrists, an elaborately tied and ruffled arrangement of black fabric around his collar and fastened at his neck. There was soot and dust smudged over his clothes and hands, several tears in the shirt, and a dark stain of what might have been blood on one shoulder.

"As far as we know, his injuries were sustained during the theft of the Sash and Great Key," the guard explained, his tone brisk and formal. "The blood is his own – he hasn't killed anyone. Luckily."

"Oh, haven't I?" came a hoarse voice, muffled by the Time Lord's hands but still audibly cracking with bitterness. Suddenly alert, the guard's hand darted to his stasar.

"What do you mean?" the Sentinel demanded.

"You could never begin to comprehend…" The Time Lord's shoulders shook, as if in a choked laugh. "There are worlds out there that you are not even aware of the existence of, worlds that you would still insist that the _fact_ of their existence is an impossibility. You, who have never left the cosseted comforts of Gallifrey, never sought further than the monotonous meandering of life in this Citadel…would it surprise you to learn that they called me the 'destroyer of worlds' out there?" At last, he lowered his hands and raised his head, and the Sentinel's eyes widened – he knew the man before him. It had been a long time since they had studied together in the Academy, but here was a former classmate the Sentinel had never been allowed to forget, a name that seemed to crop up more often than it had any right to, always associated with trouble of one kind or another…

"Doctor?"

"Oh, you remember me?" The Doctor's light grey eyes searched the Sentinel's face, apparently without recognition; the Sentinel returned the gaze, frowning as he became aware of something disconcerting – something _displaced_ – about the Doctor.

"You were deposed as President only yesterday," he replied eventually. "Do you realize how far out of your timestream you are?"

"I can only guess," said the Doctor, his mouth twisting in a wry smile. "But your…condescension…has a familiar ring to it. Did I know you once? It has been so long, you see…"

"Well, if you will go looping back on your own timestream…" Lifting his chin, the Sentinel's voice took on a tone as though he were addressing an offensive object. Now that he had placed what was so wrong about the Time Lord in front of him, it was impossible to ignore, like an itch to his acute temporal senses. "That's an offence in itself, you know – not to mention, highly irresponsible. Why, the danger your being here poses to the causal nexus could-"

"Sentinel!" For an instant, he wondered if the Doctor's recognition of him meant that they would encounter each other again in the future. He immediately rejected that train of thought – this Doctor should not be here, and to even consider gleaning details of his or anyone else's personal futures from him was obscene. The Doctor must have read correctly the distaste that passed across his face, as he continued. "No, we have not encountered each other for some time now. I do not forget an acquaintance easily, you know…" He paused, and his eyes grew distant with recollection. "Yes, I remember you now – back in the Academy… The Master always did say you would be gathering dust here for centuries – you and he never could see eye to eye, could you? You always would insist on lecturing us on the importance of 'preserving time fields' and 'non-interference' – we never did listen, of course – and-"

"I will remind you, Doctor," the Sentinel interrupted, "that you are under arrest. I am here to identify you, nothing more. Like your criminal friend the Master, you are an outlaw and an outcast – and like him, you have just placed the entire Constellation of Kasterborous in danger and attempted to access the power of the Eye of Harmony. Do you have anything to say for yourself?" All of a sudden, the animated spark which seemed to have been growing in the Doctor as he talked was extinguished; he froze, and then with a shuddering sigh, his head once again dropped to his hands and his shoulders sagged.

"I…" His words caught in his throat, and it was several long seconds before he managed to speak, his voice once again falling to a hoarse whisper. "I don't want to go. I should have known – when I said those words the first time – that it wouldn't be…that I couldn't…that… There is so much more. _So_ much _more_…"

An uncomfortable silence followed when he trailed off, and the guard glanced uncertainly at the Sentinel, who pretended not to notice. Perhaps the Doctor's brief lapse into nostalgia had affected him more than he thought, as he found himself thinking back to their years in the Academy, learning by rite the fundamental principles that Time Lords were supposed to live by, the laws of time that became almost like religious commandments to the young initiates. Whilst the principles of impartial observation and detached recording had clearly passed by both the Doctor and the Master, it had always been the Doctor who had most easily grasped that everything in time has its time. The Master had argued that point, and spent a good many time loops in detention from several Academy Professors during their early years for daring to suggest aloud that since the Time Lords had the power to circumvent death, they should use it, otherwise what was the point? That was before he had developed his talent for deception, reading their tutors and saying exactly what they wanted to hear, concealing himself entirely behind flattery and falsehoods…yes, the Sentinel remembered the Doctor's friend now, the one who must have been calling himself the Master by the time he returned to Gallifrey.

Evidently, their wayward influence on each other must have lasted.

"Your hearing will be within the day," he said grimly. "As you know, your crimes are numerous and serious. Your plea will have no bearing on your sentence. If you are found guilty, the sentence is likely to be vaporisation." When the Doctor gave no sign that he had heard, the Sentinel turned and headed for the door, the guard hurrying after.

At the door, he hesitated, turned back, opened his mouth to speak – but what could he say? The Doctor had never been a friend of his, merely an acquaintance – he had no reason to say goodbye, and coming from him now, it would just have seemed so…so unfeeling, so callous. The necessary information had been given, and there was nothing for him to say. He nodded to the guard to seal the door and departed.


	7. Family Affair

**Disclaimer:** You are probably about to decide you're very glad I don't own Doctor Who...

This is another old prompt/request I responded to a while ago - ah, clearing out the hard-drive - look at the sorts of things you can dig up! The prompt was as follows: "_Five and Six are brothers. To Six's horror, Five has started dating Six's drunk one-night stand, the Master..._" And I thought, oh why not?

Rating, genre and character tags updated to match newest chapter.  
>This chapter: <strong>K+<strong>; **Family/Humour**;** Five, Six, Ainley-Master  
><strong>

* * *

><p>"I have something very important to tell you."<p>

A surprised silence followed their simultaneous pronouncement, as the two brothers blinked at their phones, opened their mouths and closed them again. The elder was the first to overcome his indignation and turn to his companion, who was giggling, leaning against the TARDIS console and impatiently holding out a glass of carrot juice to him.

"Clearly he doesn't understand the gravity of the situation," he said, not bothering to cover the mouthpiece, and then to the other Time Lord, "Whatever it is you have to say, Quîntus, it _cannot_ be more pressing than _my _news."

"Really, Sextus," Quîntus replied mildly. "You _did _say the same about that 'Cyberman' on Spartos, your jacket being partially dissolved by Formicidae acid, and...what was it again? Oh yes - that planet you found, the one that you thought bore some resemblance to Earth but was light years away."

"I'll have you know those Formicidae dissolved every hair on the left side of my head!" Sextus huffed. "It hasn't been the same since. Anyway, what could you _possibly _have to tell me that is so important?"

"I think we'd better meet somewhere." Quîntus had lowered his voice, and Sextus couldn't help but get the impression he would have been glancing over his shoulder for his companions. "I warn you, you're not going to like it..."

...

Already sipping his second glass of wine, Sextus had made himself quite comfortable in a booth in a quiet corner of the Maldovarium by the time he caught sight of his brother's cream-beige jacket across the bar. He reclined in the soft leather chair as he waited for Quîntus to notice him - which wouldn't take long - quietly confident that this time, the news that he had an evil twin separated at birth would surely trump the younger Time Lord outright.

However, when a slightly intoxicated Yeti stumbled back from the bar and Sextus caught sight of a velvet-clad figure stepping up behind Quîntus, all of a sudden shrinking back into the booth and ducking seemed a rather more appealing idea. Of course, that would _never_do - and besides, said velvet-clad figure was standing unsettlingly close to Quîntus, raising himself on his toes to whisper something in Quîntus's ear and moving closer still so that his neatly-trimmed beard would have been brushing against the blonde Time Lord's jawline. And Sextus could do more than imagine what that might feel like.

Needless to say, by the time the brothers' eyes met and Quîntus hurried across to the booth, followed closely by the man in velvet, Sextus was bristling. Hadn't Quîntus even been perched on the very same bar stool where he himself had been slumped for three days when...

"Ah - there you are." Shoving his hands into the pockets of his striped trousers, Quîntus appeared slightly awkward, and glanced towards the other man with a ghost of a smile. "I'd...like you to meet the Master. Master, this is-"

"My dear Sextus!" the Master cut in. "You look positively..." he licked his lips and smiled wolfishly, "..._vibrant_."

"And just what do you think _you're _doing-" Sextus began indignantly.

"Wait - you know each other?" Quîntus interrupted, looking from the glowering Sextus to the Master, who was still smirking like the cat that got the cream.

"We've met," Sextus answered shortly, picking up his glass of wine and taking a large mouthful.

"A mutual acquaintance introduced us," the Master explained. "An old university friend - do you remember the Rani, Quîntus?"

"I only wish I didn't..." Quîntus muttered. "Well, Sextus - I don't know if this will make what I have to say any easier, but..." Before he could find the words, the Master looped an arm through his and pulled him close to his side.

"I see," said Sextus, draining the rest of his glass.

"Yes - he and I, we...well, we're..."

"...together," Sextus finished. "Yes, I can see that."

"Yes - yes, together. Meaning...well, you know, in the sense of-"

"_Sense_?" Sextus appeared nothing short of incredulous. "Sense has nothing to do with it!" Abruptly, he rose and moved to pass the two. "Well, it's been lovely, Quîntus, but I really must be going. Melanie is still waiting for me to drop her off at the correct point in her timestream." With a curt nod to the Master, he straightened his lapels, turned on his heel and strode away through the milling bar patrons. "Sense..." he could be heard to snort to himself, and then he was gone.

"Oh dear..." Quîntus sighed, dropping into the seat and sliding over to make room for the Master. "I really thought he'd understand, you know..."

It wasn't until his TARDIS was long gone from the Maldovarium spaceport that Sextus realized that he had completely forgotten to pass on his own news to his brother.

The hastily-assembled hypercube he tossed out into the vortex reached Quîntus's TARDIS by the next morning, but it wasn't the intended recipient who opened the door and received the brief message:

"_Put a Sestertius Decimus on the Christmas card list. And whatever you do, don't let him show you our old home videos_."

Smiling to himself, the Master dismantled the hypercube, erased all traces of a psychic signature and watched the pieces drift away through the vortex like leaves on the winds of time. Let Quîntus encounter their black sheep in his own time - after all, the Master would be there for him. It had worked _so _well the first time.

Just as long as dear Sestertius Decimus didn't find out, of course.


End file.
